


Nowhere to Run

by Kimanda



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cromwellian conquest, Gen, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Ireland, Irish history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 05:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3345992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimanda/pseuds/Kimanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cromwell and his army have landed in Ireland to subjugate him after being free from England’s control for 7 years. Drogheda and Wexford are the first towns to fall victim to the violence of the New Model Army, many soldiers within the army bent on vengeance for 1641. After the two personifications of the port towns escape under mysterious circumstances, England is tasked with tracking them down and bringing them back. However he has to get through to Ireland first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere to Run

There were times when being the personification of a nation became infuriatingly tedious. This was one of the instances. 

When had England ever agreed to being sent out on a fruitless errand? Were his soldiers that incompetent in keeping an eye on two port towns, who were nothing more than children? Due to their inattention, England was now responsible for locating and returning the reconquered personifications of Drogheda and Wexford. Having those two Irish avatars roam freely and away from direct English control simply wouldn’t do. It was strange that they had managed to flee unseen without raising any alarms. England couldn’t help but suspect that someone else was involved in their escape. 

The English avatar sighed as he surveyed the gloomy landscape. Autumn has transformed the surrounding trees from tranquil green to violent splashes of reds and yellows. Unusually enough these vibrant colours seemed dulled today, as if the oppressive grey sky was draining them of whatever life they had left. The countryside was unnervingly silent, save for the occasional howl of the lonely wind. It was as if the land itself was holding its breath, for fear of drawing England’s attention to it. 

This was land Drogheda and Wexford were intimately familiar with. Tracking them down would be far from easy. England frowned as he attempted to use his senses to locate their signals. He felt something, but the signals were too muffled. For all he knew, he had located the signals of other personifications in the surrounding area. 

He then spotted something on the grass not far from him. England stepped closer to the spot and with the tip of his musket, nudged the grass stalks aside. Drops of dried blood. England looked up and saw another patch of dried blood not far ahead. He raised his gaze and looked westwards, wondering if the signals he was picking up belonged to Wexford and Drogheda. With all that had happened, it was reasonable to assume that at least one of the towns was injured. Perhaps they had left behind a trail of blood in their haste to escape? 

At this stage, England had no other viable leads. He might as well attempt to track down whoever this blood had originated from. Shrugging off the feeling of uneasiness creeping up his spine, England began following his senses and the blood. 

Over the next half-hour, the Englishman followed the trail of blood and saw it become increasingly redder and fresher-looking. He was also picking up stronger signals from the Irish personifications, though he couldn’t shake the feeling off that he was sensing three instead of the expected two. When he finally caught sight of Drogheda and Wexford, he let out an exasperated sigh as he spied the third party who had aided their escape. All he needed to see was the all-too-familiar ginger hair of the other to be certain. Ireland. 

England strode swiftly towards the other representations, mentally cursing the one he had the misfortune of calling a brother for meddling in things that were none of his concern again. It was only fortunate that they were at the foot of a hill and exhaustion had rendered them unable to climb it. They had nowhere else to go. Wexford was wrapped up in a cloak and being carried by Ireland, the small child not moving otherwise. Drogheda was cowering behind Ireland’s tall thin frame, the bloodied girl staring fearfully at the musket as England approached. The Irishman was glaring darkly at England, as if trying to get the English nation to keel over. 

Once England was within earshot, Ireland greeted stiffly, “How’s the “no monarchy” policy working out for you?” 

Suppressing an exasperated sigh, England said, “I don’t have time for this. I never thought you would be idiotic enough to act in this manner. What in the world were you thinking, taking Drogheda and Wexford? Did you really think you could get away with this?” 

Ireland averted his gaze, scowling at the ground as he shrugged his shoulders.

England frowned and he reprimanded, “You had no right to take them with you. I need to bring them back.” He took a step towards them, causing Ireland to look at England with narrowed eyes. Tightening his grasp on Wexford, the Irishman backed away with Drogheda in tow. England snapped impatiently, “Ireland they are no longer under your dominion! Their garrisons are gone and they are under my rule now. They need to return to the towns they represent.”

“Why should I trust you after what your people did to them?” Ireland demanded angrily. He continued in a barely controlled tone, “When I found Wexford, your soldiers had impaled him on their pikes and were mocking his screams… he hasn’t woken up since I took him down.” 

Shifting uneasily, England said, “What happened to Wexford was unfortunate and I wouldn’t have wished him the sacking or the massacre of his people. This wasn’t Cromwell’s intent, he was willing to negotiate-”

“He didn’t attempt to restrain his army when they started looting and killing,” Ireland muttered under his breath. 

Ignoring Ireland’s interruption, England declared, “Cromwell wanted Wexford for his port, so he plans on sending soldiers to rebuild and repopulate the town. Wexford will pull   
through.” 

His older brother looked unconvinced by his words, gazing at Wexford’s lifeless body. He murmured quietly, “He’s going to wake up different, if he wakes up at all. He didn’t deserve this. Neither he nor Drogheda deserved any of this. They’re just children.” 

“The same could be said of my plantations. They didn’t deserve 1641,” England pointed out, struggling to keep resentment out of his voice. 

Ireland looked up and glowered at England with cold eyes. Neither personifications saw eye to eye on the subject of plantations and it always seemed to hit a sore point for the Irishman whenever England mentioned them. England had long understood that Ireland held no sympathies towards them, though it still bothered him how callous the other would act.

“Look Ireland,” England sighed, seeing that Ireland wasn’t going to respond. “I need to take Wexford and Drogheda back with me. I can’t return empty-handed, they’ll send more   
soldiers after you and…”

“If further harm comes to them,” Ireland began threateningly before trailing off when England shot him a livid glare.

“You are in a poor position to use threats against me,” England spoke slowly, angered by Ireland’s tone. “I‘ll do my best to keep them from harm, but I can’t make any promises. Give Wexford to Drogheda and let them go.”

The Irish nation looked conflicted as he glanced at Wexford and then at Drogheda. Even though Drogheda was shaking her head vigorously, Ireland’s shoulders eventually sagged in defeat. He crouched and gently passed Wexford on to Drogheda, who was trying all her best not to burst into tears. With a small kiss on her forehead and a whispered apology, Ireland nudged the two port towns towards England. 

Though Drogheda was trembling like a leaf and staring fixedly at the ground to avoid England’s gaze, she made her way towards the English nation and stood beside him. Although both Wexford and Drogheda looked battered and blood-stained, it didn’t seem either had open wounds anymore. 

Ireland, on the other hand, was visibly swaying and for a brief moment his eyes became unfocussed. It took England a moment to realize that his brother was a lot paler than usual. He ventured warily, “You look… tired.”

“Speak for yourself Sasanach.”

Frowning at the response, England was pensive for a few seconds before saying, “Go to Connacht.” When Ireland shot him a quizzical look, he explained, “Cromwell and his men   
are focussed on defeating the Confederation and bringing you back under English rule. If they were to capture you and discover your true nature…”

Ireland shook his head. “Does it matter? No matter where I go, I will feel the deaths of my people. I can’t escape it.”

“There’s a difference between suffering far away and being at the mercy of those who want revenge for 1641,” England argued, becoming frustrated. “Heed my warning, as a brother to another brother.” 

“I don’t take orders from you, I’ve had you off my back these past seven years and I don’t intend on being ruled again. I’ll stay and fight alongside my people,” Ireland said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

England gritted his teeth and cocked his musket, pointing it directly as Ireland’s chest. 

Ireland’s expression was that of helpless bemusement before he let out a bitter laugh. “You’re going to need to be more creative than that brother. Guns don’t intimidate me.”

“It’s not for intimidation I’m doing this. I’m giving you a choice. Go to Connacht willingly or by force.” When Ireland showed no sign to move, England warned lowly, “I will not repeat myself again.” 

“Rot in hell,” Ireland hissed. 

Eyes narrowed, England pulled the trigger.


End file.
